


If the heart is willing

by crayyyonn



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: +1 for the team, Clint is a big baby, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, mentions of offscreen near death, no one dies, way too many parentheses, writeworld prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:19:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crayyyonn/pseuds/crayyyonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint wasn't around the first time Phil nearly dies. This is the second.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the heart is willing

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a tiny drabble to distract me from the not-quite-dirty-dancing AU that refuses to get written, but then it became this. Done for this prompt - http://bit.ly/1hsg1oV
> 
> Mentions of near death (offscreen), lots of medical inaccuracies. The headline is an actual thing that happened on the Daily Mail site.

Unsurprisingly, the first person Phil sees when he wakes up is Clint.  
  
He smiles, a little disoriented from the drug cocktail the doctors put him on, and tries to find Clint’s hand with his. His aim is a little off-center but Clint catches it all the same, holding it loosely in his.  
  
“Hi,” Phil whispers, or tries to – it comes out as mostly breath. He is grateful when Clint holds up an ice chip to his lips.  
  
“Hi yourself,” Clint says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  
  
Phil frowns. He’s still woozy, but he swears there’s something not quite right with that smile. He tries to run it against all of Clint’s smiles that he’s seen but gets happily distracted when Clint brushes a soft kiss across his knuckles, stroking across them with his thumb. It feels good, and Phil feels his eyelids drooping as it lulls him back into sleep. He fights it, not quite ready to go back under.

  
The last thing he remembers is Clint telling him that he’ll be here when he wakes.

  
-

  
The room is empty the next time Phil wakes up.  
  
He’s feeling slightly more alert now that the worst of the drugs have worked their way out of his system, but that also means that he can feel the pain of flesh and bone knitting themselves back into usefulness. He wants to groan but his parched throat rasps in protest.  
  
He’s trying to sit up when the door opens. Clint is by his side in three quick strides, dropping the tray on the nightstand and reaching around his shoulders with one arm to hold Phil up as he simultaneously presses the button to raise the bed, arranging the pillows for Phil to lay against.  
  
Phil pants to catch his breath, and the frantic beeping of the heart monitor finally begins to slow down.  
  
“I can’t leave you for two minutes without you getting into some kind of trouble,” Clint grouses. Grabbing a tissue, he dabs it along Phil’s hairline.  
  
“Sorry,” Phil croaks, and Clint holds up a water glass with a straw to his lips.  
  
“Small sips,” he instructs.  
  
When he’s done, Clint replaces the water glass on the tray and Phil looks around the room. It’s designed to look like a medical bay, but-  
  
“We’re at the Tower. Tony insisted. Said you’d be more comfortable when you wake up,” Clint says, anticipating Phil’s questions like he always does.  
  
It’s equal parts frustrating and heartwarming to Phil that Clint knows him so well.  
  
“How long?” he rasps.  
  
“Evac was four days ago. You were unconscious for three. The first time you woke up was yesterday.”  
  
“The hostages?”  
  
“All accounted for.”  
  
“The target?”  
  
“Neutralized. But he’s not talking still. Natasha’s working on it.”  
  
“What about the-”  
  
“If you're so keen to talk about the mission how 'bout we also discuss you walking into a hostage situation unarmed.” Clint interrupts. “Tell me, Phil, which hostage negotiation seminar does that fall under?”  
  
Phil manages to suppress the reflexive jump at the hardness in Clint's voice, but doesn't quite manage to swallow the wince that came after.   
  
It makes Clint's expression shutter, the anger dissipating almost as instantly as it arrived, leaving just a pinch between Clint’s eyes and his lips pressing together so tightly it’s a white line against his tan skin. Helplessly, Phil reaches out for Clint’s hand, twisting their fingers together.  
  
“Clint,” he tries, then stops. He hasn't the faintest idea what to say next.   
  
They sit in silence for a long time.

  
-

  
Phil doesn’t get discharged until a week later.  
  
He doesn’t see why he couldn’t have moved back to the rooms he shares with Clint once he’d woken up when it’s just ten floors away, but Dr Prakash was insistent about it and Phil has learned the hard way that Clint is inclined to follow his instructions to the letter.  
  
He’s up and walking – well, shuffling, with the help of a cane – having vetoed the wheelchair that the nurse suggested. Tony had made it fully voice operated and Phil is touched, truly, but just because he's nursing a gunshot wound (or three, in addition to a fractured rib and a dislocated shoulder) it doesn’t mean he's a cripple.  
  
Clint has been, not avoiding him, per se, you can't quite avoid a person you're taking care of while he recovers, but he's been distant all the same. To the casual observer (basically everyone who isn't Phil), Clint is more than attentive. He reads the daily headlines to Phil, picking out the ones that are so ridiculous Phil has to demand to see them himself, before explaining to Thor one morning that no, eating calamari does not make one pregnant with baby squid.   
  
“But is it not only truth that is written in your broad paper of news?” Thor asks, confused, and Phil attempts to explain embellishment and the value of a scandalous headline to the Asgardian while Clint just collapses into a laughing, unhelpful heap. They are careful not to do it around Thor after that.   
  
Clint also feeds him with rumors from the SHIELD grapevine, Natasha chiming in once she's unofficially reported the results of her interrogation to Phil. (He'd broken by the second hour and spilled everything, including the names of the two moles that had made the ambush possible.) By the end of the week, Phil knows more than he's ever wanted to about the goings-on in select briefing rooms (and one janitorial closet) as well as seven bets that are clearly against regulations (three involving real world money and one, Bitcoin. He doesn't really want to know about the rest.)  
  
When Steve visits, Clint breaks out the Captain America comics, much to Phil's embarrassment. They've all lived in the Tower for close to two years now, and Phil's been careful to keep his idolization under wraps (it's easy when Clint takes up nearly all his attention anyway). Steve doesn't seem to mind, though, and Clint more often than not leaves Phil to talk to Steve about them while he and Tony quietly discusses the billionaire's latest ideas or projects. Phil keeps half his attention on them, feeling a surge of pride whenever Clint voices a logical observation that manages to stump Tony. Steve just watches him with a knowing smile.   
  
As always, he tries not to mind the comfortable rapport and constant touching between Clint and Bruce whenever the doctor is around. It's not easy.  
  
For all intents and purposes, Clint seems fine. But whenever they're alone, Clint falls into silence more often than not. Oh, he answers readily when Phil asks him questions, and makes genial small talk, even joking around like he always does, but he's not _talking_ , especially not about what is bothering him. And other than when he's helping Phil sit up, or go to the bathroom, or to massage his atrophying muscles, Clint also doesn't touch him. Phil deliberately brushes his fingers against Clint's once when Clint was handing him a glass, just to check that his suspicions aren't unfounded.   
  
Clint had tensed for a split second before forcibly making himself relax, and Phil grows more uneasy by the day. 

  
-

  
Clint matches his steps to Phil’s as he slowly makes his way to the elevator. He doesn’t crowd Phil or hold on to him, but stays just close enough to be able to catch him if he has to. Phil, as much as he hates feeling helpless, is torn between gratitude for the thoughtful (if unneccesary) gesture and teeth-grinding frustration at Clint's clear unwillingness to have any sort of physical contact with him.   
  
Enough is enough, Phil thinks petulantly. He's putting an end to this today.  
  
Reaching out, he latches onto Clint's arm, ignoring the way the archer goes stiff almost immediately. Clint shoots him a look of concern and Phil shakes his head to the unasked question, even as he tightens his grip. He not hurting, not any more than he has been recently anyway. Relief fills Clint's eyes and while he doesn't quite pull away, he does hold his body in such a way that he manages to not touch Phil any more than is necessary.   
  
Annoyed, Phil waits until they are in the elevator, then leans his entire weight on him. Despite Phil’s intentions to break Clint, it's not completely an act. Every cell in his body is screaming in protest of the exertion, and while Phil still doesn’t like the idea of sitting in a wheelchair, right now he’s not all that unwilling to reconsider. As if reading Phil’s mind, Clint finally raises an arm and wraps it around Phil's waist in support. Thankful, Phil sags against it.   
  
Once they reach their rooms, Phil painfully lowers himself onto the couch and Clint disappears into the kitchen, reappearing with a couple of painkillers and a glass of water moments later.  
  
“Thanks,” Phil says, swallowing the pills and draining the glass.  
  
Perching on the arm of the couch, Clint takes the empty glass from Phil and sets it on the coffee table. “I TiVo’d your shows for you. Want me to queue them up?” he asks.  
  
Phil shakes his head. “Maybe later.”  
  
“Okay. Want to take a nap, then? Couch or bed?”  
  
Phil nods, considering. While he isn't inclined to move at all for, oh, the next fifty years or so, the couch is much too narrow for two.   
  
“Bed,” he says, looking up at Clint.   
  
“Okay. Come on.” Standing, he reaches for Phil and carefully pulls him up, and they make their way to the bedroom in a slow shuffle.  
  
Lifting the covers, Clint helps Phil slide under them, then tucks him in snugly. Phil catches his wrist before he can leave.   
  
“Lay with me?” he asks, keeping his grip tight to prevent Clint from pulling away. And if he also intentionally makes his voice deeper and slightly huskier, well. Phil's not above playing dirty when there's something he wants.   
  
After a long pause, Clint sighs, then nods reluctantly. “Just give me a second to get your meds.” Gently, he disengages Phil's grip with his free hand and squeezes his fingers once before letting go and leaving the room.   
  
True to his word, he returns with pill packages and a large glass of water. Setting them down on the nightstand, he undoes his belt and pushes down his jeans until they pool at his feet to reveal familiar grey boxers. Then he climbs in and settles as close to the edge of the bed as he can get without falling off.   
  
When Clint doesn't make any move to get closer, Phil pokes him in the side, but his eyelids don't even flicker, the bastard. Stifling a frustrated sigh, Phil considers his options. If the mountain won't come to Mohammad, he thinks.   
  
Shifting himself nearer, he carefully begins to roll onto his side. It just so happens that it's also the side he was shot in, and he grits his teeth against a gasp as pain lanced through his body.   
  
“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” Clint sounds equal parts angry and frantic as he rolls over and pushes Phil onto his back, looming over him and running his hands up and down Phil's side to check if the bandages are still intact.   
  
They are, but Phil is enjoying the feel of Clint's questing fingers too much to want to reassure him.   
  
“I wanted your arms around me,” he confesses, and above him, Clint stills. Quietly, he continues, “When are you going to stop pretending that everything's fine?”  
  
“Everything is fine,” Clint says, defiant.  
  
Phil closes his eyes for a brief moment, before reaching up a hand to cup Clint's jaw, stroking his thumb over the pale stubble pushing through skin. “Clint, please,” he whispers. “ _Talk to me_.”  
  
Clint swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing as he does. Then in one swift moment, he buries his face in Phil's neck. Phil waits.   
  
Long moments pass before Clint finally says, “I thought I'd lost you.” His voice is muffled but it doesn't do much to disguise the broken sob.   
  
Lump rising to his throat, Phil slides tentative fingers into the soft hair at Clint's nape as he struggles for something to say.  
  
“Clint, I’m-”  
  
“Sorry?” Clint finishes for him, then says bitterly, “Of course you are.” Raising his head, he swipes a hand across his eyes. “You nearly died, Phil. You nearly died again, and I wasn't there,” Clint whispers after a moment. “I was so fucking scared.”  
  
It isn’t so much the anguish in Clint’s voice, but the unbridled fear in his eyes that nearly breaks Phil.   
  
“I'm sorry.” He doesn’t know what else to say, what else he could say, so he repeats it. “I’m sorry, Clint.”   
  
Reaching up, he wraps his hand around Clint's nape, pulling him down so the blond head is resting on his chest, above his heart, wincing a little when the pressure shoots a sliver of pain through his body. Clint doesn't resist him, though he shifts a little so he isn't lying anywhere close to Phil's wounds. He slides a leg between Phil's and his hands clutch at his shoulders in a vise grip. It hurts slightly, but Phil is glad for it as he lifts an arm to wrap it around Clint's tapered waist. They lay unmoving, holding on to each other tightly and for so long that their heartbeats start to synchronize.   
  
“Just.” He feels it when Clint swallows. “Just try not to die on me, okay, Phil. At least not when I'm not there.”  
  
Refraining from pointing out that it's not going to be easier if Clint is present for his eventual (inevitable) death, Phil just nods, Clint's hair tickling his jaw as he does.   
  
“I promise,” he says.   
  
He drops a kiss on the top of Clint's head and takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with Clint's scent, aftershave mixed with cologne and a hint of leather and musk and sweat. It's familiar and comforting and home, and he never wants to let go.


End file.
